by Daisy White
A whole line of traffic — delivery vans with painted logos, and a few cars, and a motorbike — wends its way between us, but we stay as we are. I’m almost shaking now, though. Why doesn’t he do something? It is like being watched by a corpse propped against the wall. If the delivery men and the children hadn’t clearly seen him and run into him, I’d definitely think he was a ghost. Would George come all the way to Brighton to haunt me? Lots of men have dark hair. I shove away my crazy thoughts and make a decision. I’m going to find out what the hell he thinks he’s doing.
I move away, quickly finish my job and turn to ask for five minutes’ break, but all the time I know it’s going to be too late. If he wanted us to meet we would have done so by now. I look back and the man has vanished, almost as though he could read my mind.
I narrow my eyes. My palms are wet with sweat and my mouth is dry. I stare uselessly up and down the road. From her chair in the sun, Mary catches me looking, waves and stands up. The big pink clock on the wall of the salon shows three o’clock. At least three more hours of clients and cleaning to concentrate on.
I try to bury myself in the work and take over from Eve with the shampooing. But my stepdad keeps intruding.
* * *
I can see him as he was on that last evening, shouting as usual and pushing Mum around the room. A big burly man with curly dark hair and a broad chest. He smashed some of the dresser plates for good measure, watched Mum creep away weeping and turned to me where I stood frozen in the doorway in my coat.
Mary and I had already made up our minds to go that night. We’d told Derek and Mum that the teacher-training college had laid on some extra night classes. All I needed was for George to finish his usual bullying routine, and go down the pub, so I could make my escape. He always went down the Kings Head, drank with his mates until closing time, came home and collapsed in a drunken stupor.
But tonight he was late. Late home from the market because he had been doing some deal, and late to eat the dinner Mum had cooked, which was dry and tasteless by the time she put it in front of him.
George’s insults never really bothered me, although nobody likes being called a prostitute or a slag, or be accused of stealing the housekeeping money, day after day. I was even used to being hit. But that evening his fist smashed into my stomach like a sledgehammer, making me double up in agony. He leant close over me. His breath was already sour with drink and anger. “Just checking you haven’t got any brats brewing, like your slag friend.”
His second blow caught the side of my head, and knocked me right out. Only for a couple of minutes, though, because when I opened my eyes he was still stamping clumsily around the kitchen. He dipped into the old bean tin where we kept the housekeeping money, and pulled his boots on.
I lay where I had fallen, playing dead, as my head pounded and lights flashed behind my closed eyes. My outstretched hand was sticky and wet with blood.
* * *
Finally the last client is dispatched into the warm evening with her neat curls and bright pink nails. Time to grab some food and get ready to go out. Not much food, though, because we spend every penny on our nightlife. There are so many places to explore, so many new friends to join up with. Sometimes we go out with Pearl’s crowd, but lately we’ve joined up with a big gang of Johnnie’s friends too. We hit the dance halls, the coffee bars, the ice rink, and my personal favourite, The Blue Gardenia, which is above our first-ever coffee bar, the Whisky-a-Go-Go.
“Make sure you both come in a bit early tomorrow. I want to get started at eight. We’ve had so many bookings, I’m squeezing a few in at the top end of the day,” Catherine tells me, patting her peroxide curls. Eve nods. On top of the fact we’re new, we are out partying every night, which means we aren’t “nice girls” waiting for some dumb clod of a boyfriend to come along and marry us. I also made the mistake of telling Eve we tried teacher-training and didn’t like it.
Both Catherine and Eve have numerous kids, and I can see how hard they work, and how their eyes are shadowed if “the baby” has had a bad night. I suppose for lots of girls you marry your childhood sweetheart, have babies and work your arse off to keep them warm and fed. Life isn’t about having fun, it’s about surviving and keeping your kitchen floor clean. Mum made such a great job of doing that, it made me utterly determined to have a different life. I want excitement, adventure, and all the fun she never had.
By the time we sweep up and lay a fresh towel on each chair ready for the morning, I’ve successfully shoved the watcher to the back of my mind, and I’m wondering what to wear tonight. Mary is yawning but ignores any barbed comments about her “little rest.” I tidy the flowered coat hangers on the rack by the door, which reminds me of the glamorous wedding party.
“Eve, where is Glebe House?”
She tuts. “Glebe House for a wedding reception!”
“Is it very posh?” Mary asks, grabbing her bag and cardigan ready for our departure.
Catherine shrugs on her own sturdy, patched wool coat, and hands Eve an almost identical one. Outside the sunshine paves the street with gold and silver stripes, and the heat hits us every time a client opens the door. I wonder what they wear in winter.
“Glebe House is a ruin. It burnt down years ago, and the family that owned it never bothered to get it rebuilt. That’s why Johnnie said they were having a picnic in the grounds.” Catherine shoulders her bag, giving her hair another quick pat and pulling her pinny into the proper position.
Eve joins in. “Can’t say as I’d ever have one of my kids get married up there. It’s got a nasty history. The garden was built on an ancient burial pit, and there were a couple of other fires before the one that destroyed the place. Some people reckon it’s cursed up there. Apparently some lord who used to own it believed all the local legends, decided his own wife was a witch, and burnt her to death in the garden.”
The horrid story chills me, but I can see Mary almost succumbing to giggles as the pair grumble on about the ruins of Glebe House being a waste of good land that should be going to the new housing developers. They’re more animated than I’ve ever seen them.
“But that isn’t the worst of it,” Catherine says. “Last year some poor girl was murdered up there. A local girl, I can’t think . . . oh yes, Katie Something. She was killed on the Witch Stone, that’s what they call the memorial stone that was put up for Lady Isabella. Shocking!”
The chills increase, so I’m shivering properly, and Mary has gone pale. “Really? Did they find who did it?”
Catherine is obviously pleased at the effect she’s had. “She’d been seeing a new boyfriend, and her old one got jealous. The police brought him in for questioning, but then released him, and later he killed himself rather than be charged with her murder. A coward’s way out, if you ask me!”
“Very sad, but it is in the past,” Eve says firmly. “We’ll see you tomorrow morning, girls.”
At the top of Ship Street we take the opposite road to our colleagues, and wander towards Pearl’s little bedsit in silence.
“That was horrible. The poor girl,” Mary says eventually, twisting a strand of blonde hair in her fingers.
“I know. I see why you wouldn’t want a wedding there. But things happen, don’t they?”
Mary changes the subject. “It’ll be weird when we move out next week, although it’s lovely of Johnnie to get the room ready for us so quickly. We are so lucky to end up with him as an employer.” She eyes an ice-cream stand longingly, but then claps a hand over her stomach, “I need to be careful about eating too much. I’m starving all the time at the moment. Maybe I’m having twins!”
“Cool. Although it might be more painful giving birth to two babies! I think I’ve got enough for a bag of chips each from my tips today,” I tell her with a sigh. Then, because it has been niggling at me, I add, “I’m really sorry about before at the salon. I didn’t mean to scare you. And I honestly can’t think of anyone who would have followed us here.” I deliberately don�
�t mention my stepdad again. If I don’t ever talk about it, maybe it will fade like a bad dream. Or wash away like that blood I stepped in the other night.
Another unwelcome thought strikes me. Could the watcher have killed the cat? If he really followed us from Croydon he must have been trailing us all day. But then why nothing for two weeks? Letting us settle into our new home perhaps, before he started to sneak into my life?
“S’okay. I know Derek won’t come after me really. That’s just how he is. While I was there I was convenient to punch, but now I’m not he’ll just find someone else. It’s not as if he cares about the baby or anything.” Mary shoots me a look, “But you need to be careful. Someone’s messing with you, Rubes. Maybe with both of us. This man you keep seeing, if he chucked your stepdad’s ring over the wall, he came from Croydon. No question. It’s like he’s checking you out.”
“You think I don’t know that? I just can’t get my head around how or who. He obviously doesn’t want to confront us. He’s just messing with us, like you say. I guess I wait to see what happens next.” I hate the idea of being at the mercy of some lunatic but neither of us mention the police, for obvious reasons. I squeeze her arm, leaning my head on her shoulder.
The shop windows make us pause. They’re decorated with spring flowers, and mannequins stand around in spotted bikinis, ruffled skirts, and red macs against a sky-blue background.
“I love that mac, but it’ll take me months to save up in tips. By then I’ll be all fat with the baby and it won’t fit,” Mary says mournfully.
“But when you’ve had the baby you’ll be back to normal and you can buy the mac as a treat,” I tell her, admiring the rows of suede boots and polished brogues.
“Do we tell Pearl about the ring?” Mary cups her stomach, smoothing the pink and grey fabric and fiddling with a loose button.
“No, I don’t want to worry her. She’s done enough for us. It’ll work out okay, I’m sure. You’ll be fine. We’ll both be fine and the baby will be beautiful. Hey, what do you think about a picnic at Glebe House tomorrow after work? We could do with seeing somewhere new.” I almost feel I need to lay the ghost, and the challenge of heading to the site of a previous murder — somewhere that makes me scared — might help. It’s almost like I need to keep pushing myself, to keep punishing myself for what I’ve done. When a spark of happiness creeps in I have to stamp it out.
“What, at the ‘cursed house’? Don’t you think that might be pushing our luck?” She smiles, though. “Those London girls looked beautiful, didn’t they? Imagine just heading off to the seaside to get married with flowers in your hair.”
The evening sun glows over the older part of town, touching roofs and chimneys with gold and turning drifting seagulls into twisted shapes. I can hear the sea murmuring, and taste a whisper of salt on my lips. No dark watcher sullies the peaceful scene. The only people to pass us are giggling kids and workers on their way home. I stretch out a hand to dip into my purse, scraping out a few coins for chips, and my skin is pale and clean. No blood tonight, and the bruises are long gone.
Chapter Five
Back at Pearl’s bedsit, we have the place to ourselves since she’s got a late shift. It won’t stop her coming out into town, though. She’s promised to join us later. Mary and I scrabble to get changed out of our uniforms, and haul on our dresses.
I shove the signet ring into a little zip-up bag with the rest of my jewellery and hide the whole thing under a pile of knickers. It’s a beautiful spring evening and we’re heading out for some fun. I am not going to let any ghosts, real or imaginary, wreck my life again. “Can you throw my hairbrush over?”
I finish my outfit with some gorgeous, and outrageous, daffodil earrings. My dress is yellow as well — thigh-length, pleated, and nipped in at the waist with a wide white plastic belt. I brush my long dark hair carefully over one shoulder.
“Can I get away with this?” Mary holds up a huge netted skirt against a white peasant blouse. “Pearl tried to make me wear it last week, and she was a bit annoyed when I wouldn’t.”
“Only because my cousin sees us like dolls she can dress up. She’s always been bossy, much as I love her.” It looks amazing with her pale colouring, and I tell her so. I paint on my own pink eye-shadow, enough mascara to make my sooty lashes droop with the weight, and rose-coloured lipstick. Perfect!
Transformed into party girls once more, we head out arm in arm. It takes a good half hour of twisting our way down the now-familiar streets to get to the seafront. Johnnie and a couple of other girls are already leaning against the green railings with their cigarettes.
The beach sprawls behind them, and they look like a glamorous advert for Brighton in the summer. Tourists and day-trippers paddle and argue, dotting the sand in their gaudy swimming costumes, making the most of the early heatwave. A few cars whizz past. Mary takes my hand, giggling, and we totter across the road on our high heels in a rush, like kids let out of school.
A grey-haired man in a stately Bentley cruises along the seafront road, one arm casually resting on the window frame, enjoying the sun. He smiles at us and Mary giggles again.
“Very nice. Let’s go and find the party!” Johnnie chucks his cigarette butt over into the sand.
“Johnnie! You can’t do that, you might have hit someone!” Victoria tells him, stretching her arms skyward and yawning. The sun lights up her golden hair and her green eyes.
“Hope I did, and it was that dreadful girl in the green dress. Horrendous!” Johnnie leads us off down the promenade, dismissing the incident with a rude hand gesture.
“How was the wedding reception?” I ask. We trot along behind him towards the Regent. I suddenly remember my idea for tomorrow. “Why are you back so soon?”
He blows a kiss into the sun-streaked evening air. “It was divine and very relaxing. Guitars in the woods, garlands of flowers on the Witch Stone, baskets of purple hearts, and an infinite supply of champagne. I didn’t stay long, because I had a prior engagement, but I’m sure they’ll all still be there tomorrow morning. Rather them than me, darlings, with the history of that place.”
“Eve was telling us about the Witch Stone. She said something about the girl that was murdered last year?” Mary gives him the dramatic opening he is so clearly looking for.
Johnnie purses his lips for a moment before his usual good humour returns. “Poor Katie. Yes, that was an awful thing. But to go back to the historical aspect, the Witch Stone was erected — yes, children, I said ‘erected’ — in memory of a rather beautiful and unfortunate young lady, whose husband decided she was a witch. He was obviously a bit insane, as so many of these toffs are.” He waves off the laughter. “Anyway, the husband took his wife down to the end of the garden and burnt her at the stake. Technically it was recorded as murder, but actually, Lady Isabella Gordon might have been the last witch to be burnt at the stake.”
“Eve and Catherine told us about that too. I think they were a bit shocked someone would have a wedding reception up there. I can sort of see their point, actually.” Mary pulls a face. “But Rubes wants us to have a picnic there tomorrow evening.”
Johnnie pauses for a split second, looking down with his cigarette halfway to his lips. Then he laughs. “Why not? It’s a lovely spot for an evening out.”
“Let’s do it!” Victoria is enthusiastic, “I’ll bring my cards if you like, and we can do some readings.”
Okay. I wasn’t expecting that. It turns out that nurse Victoria reads Tarot cards in her spare time. I may have to opt out of that. What with a fairly earthbound watcher who may or may not mean me harm, or the spirit of my stepdad lurking around somewhere, I reckon the dead can stay buried. But I do fancy following in the footsteps of the wedding party and their flower-strewn glamour.
* * *
“She looks like my sister Garnet.” I point out a brunette spinning and twisting on the dance floor to a bit of Carole King.
“Pardon?” Mary leans in close to hear. “Oh. Yes, a bit.
But Garnet’s a bit younger, isn’t she?” She snuggles back into the red velvet booth beside me and puts her hand briefly on my bare shoulder. “They’ll be okay, Ruby.”
I sip my Coca-Cola straight from the bottle, light another cigarette, and sigh. “I know. Just sometimes when we’re having fun I feel guilty I couldn’t bring them all with me.”
“No regrets, remember. And . . . well, George is dead, so there is nobody to hit your sisters. They’ll grow up safer than you ever did, sweetheart. Come on, you said we wouldn’t talk about it while we’re having fun!”
“Come and dance, Miss Pop-Lips!” Johnnie’s in one of his crazy moods. He loves to call me this stupid nickname, and now some of the others have started copying him. But I laugh and get up to bop away to Elvis, enjoying the breathless, sweaty steps. I dance with Kenny and then with Ted. Ted seems to have got nowhere with Linda, but he seems quite happy to just watch her, and be granted the odd turn around the crowded floor. They’ll probably end up getting married.
Finally, exhausted and sweaty, we grab a table and steal some more chairs from a very drunk group of older men. Kenny brings over a load of bottles and more glasses, and I gulp my gin and orange gratefully. I look round at the people round us.
I’m getting to grips with the different Brighton gangs now. Much as I admired the ‘London girls’ from the wedding party today, I stay away from the ‘London boys’ in dark suits flashing their cash at the seedier Brighton bars. I prefer the other tribes that gather on the seafront at the weekends. The suited-and-booted Mods and the leather-clad Rockers seem more like us. They seem less dangerous too, however often they clash with each other. I’m not sure where the university students fit in yet, but Pearl is always grumbling that most of the male students she has met already have girlfriends.
“Hey! You’ll never guess what!” Victoria’s pink shoes clatter over the floor.
